Greatest Hits
by revolutionsoftheheart
Summary: What's a soul mate? A lover? A friend? Or a stranger smiling at you on the street when you need it most? Perhaps it's a person who, no matter what role they occupy in your life, is your constant, like a song that never leaves your head. Outlaw Queen.
"Do you ever wonder what happens to other versions of us?"

She pops the question one day, late at night after they've tucked the kids in bed, empty glasses of whiskey sitting on the coffee table and fire roaring in the hearth.

Robin emerges from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of spiked hot chocolate – one last treat before they retire for the night – and a frown. "What do you mean?"

Regina motions for him to come over and waits until he's settled next to her on the couch, draping her legs over his lap. "I'm just thinking… One small detail could change the rest of our lives," she starts, gaze fixed upon her socked feet. She wiggles her toes. "When I think about how _different_ things could be, I wonder…" She pauses, then, and looks up to him shyly, "would we still be together?"

Robin simply smiles, neither surprised nor troubled by her question. With his unique calm – the perfect counterweight to her overactive imagination – he takes her mug from her hands and sets it down on the table next to his, wrapping his now free arm around her thighs. He pulls her closer, palm framing her cheek as he does so, gently coasting her attention back to him. The love she sees reflected in his eyes never fails to take her breath away.

She tries to return his smile, but a multitude of unanswered questions about their _destiny_ create a ruckus in her head and prevent her from enjoying the here and now.

Robin doesn't seem to mind, however, content to watch her try. His voice is low, soothing when he tells her, "I like to think being your soul mate means something more," earning himself a canted eyebrow for his very Snow White-like words. He chuckles. "What I mean is that it's not about love, not always." His mistake becomes abundantly clear when her whole body stiffens against him and he quickly squeezes her hip in reassurance. "Although this version of me is quite taken with you," he adds with an impish grin, pecking her lips once, twice, letting the sweet kiss linger the third time their mouths meet.

He tastes faintly of whiskey and hot chocolate, the odd mix enough to assuage her fears, and she gives him a little nod when he lets go her lips, indicating that she's fine and he should continue. He's never given her reason to doubt his feelings for her – most days, she doesn't – but after knowing only disappointment for years, this kind of devotion and understanding is sometimes hard to accept.

Robin doesn't speak right away. He takes a moment to stroke the apple of her cheek with his thumb, _looking_ at her to make sure her latent concerns are truly gone. If he were anybody else, she'd hate being treated with kid gloves, but it's Robin and he doesn't make her feel like a burden. His tenderness is natural; he actually cares, and her heart swells with gratitude at his everlasting patience.

Satisfied with the way she's now relaxed against the backrest of the couch, he starts again slowly, "What I meant was that in every version of reality, we must _mean_ something to each other. Whether it's love or friendship or a stranger smiling at you when you need it most, it doesn't matter. I know we will – or have – crossed paths." Regina frowns, having no clue as to where he's going with this, but he doesn't let that stop him. "I believe a soul mate can be many things. A lover, should the timing be right," he winks and a trace of levity finally tugs at the corners of her mouth, "but there is potential for so much more."

 **::**

They're all the same, those business people: tailored suits, black skirts, dress pants, fancy blouses and shirts. They blend in the Monday morning crowd of hurried individuals, briefcase in one hand and Starbucks in the other, reeking of opulent comforts. An ensemble of shoes clack in a prestissimo fashion on the pavement and eyes are riveted on small digital screens, pretending not to notice the opened guitar case on the ground.

Robin pulls the blanket over his knees and readjusts the instrument on his lap.

The morning rush hour is usually lucrative, people tossing him the spare change from their all-too-expensive coffee orders, but it seems luck is not on his side today. He's already been at work for over an hour, singing one Christmas song after the other, hoping the spirit of the season will appeal to those who usually overlook him, but there are only a few coins – mostly quarters, sometimes a few dollars – scattered across the red linen covering the bottom of his case. Business is slow today, people on the street more preoccupied with Christmas coming in just a few days than with whether or not he'll get to eat lunch. Who has money to spare on someone like him when there are gifts to buy and feasts to prepare?

His fingers strum against the strings as he glances at a clock in a nearby storefront.

8:15 AM.

Soon, then.

She always comes at the same time. He expects her, now – doesn't know what weekday mornings would be like without her pinched eyebrows, full red lips, and sad, but ever so lovely, dark eyes.

He wonders about the story behind those eyes.

Inventing a past for the different people he spies on the street is a hobby of his – second favourite to music, actually. He's developed the pastime over the years; when his fingers failed him, he'd rely on his imagination, his gaze scanning the sidewalks to spot the odd one out in a sea of otherwise dull and identical individuals.

(People are always more interesting when they think nobody's watching.)

Based on the few elements at his disposal – a trace of lipstick on a shirt collar, a limp, a handhold, the number of coffees being carried by one individual – he'd create a whole new world to lose himself in, forgetting his worries, his troubles. Inspiration would never fail to come back, then, lining up enough notes to fill this new reality with his compositions.

Her story comprises some of his best work, often melancholic, always unique, though sometimes very counterproductive. There are days he spends more time envisioning what her life is like than playing the chords that will earn him dinner. If he does sweep his thumb against the strings, it's angry, unmelodious accents that come out of his instrument, unable, as he is, to stop his mind from conjuring an image of her, lying motionless on cold ceramic tiles.

Those days, her makeup doesn't fully cover the bruises marring her face.

He pictures her as the daughter of some rich couple. She's attended the best schools this city has to offer, has had her whole life planned from the moment she was only an embryo, but has never desired the riches her family had to offer. She wanted a simple life, free from her parents' meddling. Perhaps she had a crush on their manservant, who knows, but the one thing Robin is nearly quite certain about is that she was never so lucky as to get the opportunity to escape this life she loathed. Instead, she's become one of the very people she despised as a child, fate never showing her the kindness she deserved.

These frivolous ideas are, of course, all speculation. The truth of her, Robin will never know – it's not his place to know – but it's more interesting than believing she's one of those self-centered individuals who ignore the misery of people like him. Some days, when he's feeling particularly bold, he even dares imagine an alternate universe, if such things exist, where he's lucky enough to chase her pain with caresses of his lips.

Reality is far from his fictional tales, however. In the real world, she walks past him every morning without paying him any mind, too absorbed in her own thoughts, phone conversation, or whatever it is that grabs her attention at such an early hour.

Still, his eyes can't help but search the crowded sidewalks for her particular figure.

When fifteen minutes pass and he doesn't hear the telltale staccato rhythm of her Jimmy Choos, Robin's shoulders sag forward and he misses a note, cursing between his teeth.

This is what hope has made of him: an old fool, waiting for a woman he doesn't know – who doesn't know him – to round the corner of the street.

The Christmas spirit has deserted him, leaving in its wake sad ballads more befitting of a rainy autumn day.

He's searching in the back of his mind for the chords to _Oh Happy Day_ – maybe he can derive fake enthusiasm from irony and salvage the morning – when a hand clutching a piece of paper is thrust into his line of vision.

"I trust you have a bank account," are the words that accompany the disrupting movement, and it takes a moment for the person next to him to come into focus, a gasp leaving his lips when he recognizes _her_.

She's crouched by his side, arm outstretched, handing him what he now recognizes as a check, with more zeroes than he's ever seen.

A stunned "What?" is all he manages to slur.

She laughs, and it's such a beautiful sound, a melody of its own, a hope-filled music that breathes life into his soul and magics away the grimness. For a moment, it even makes him believe in happy endings again, in possibilities so out of this world they make the imminent heartbreak of reality seem insignificant in comparison.

Maybe foolishness has its place after all.

"A bank account," she repeats. "Do you have one?"

Her head cocks to the side to meet his eyes, and it's only then that he notices the difference, when she brings her left hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

She doesn't have a ring.

His – she's not his, but he's come to think of her as such – elegant brunette has always had a ring. He'd always presumed her married to some rich CEO or government official, living in one of the most upscale apartments this city has to offer, yet here she is, ring finger bare, handing him a check that could turn his life around, money she's undoubtedly earned in the divorce.

Warmth spreads through his chest at the thought that she'd finally gotten away from her awful marriage, that she'll no longer be forced to hide under a mask. Her makeup is lighter this morning, he realizes, her eyes unburdened.

"Mom, we're gonna be late."

Robin turns his head towards the voice. It belongs to a young man, thirteen, maybe fourteen years old, who's been observing the two adults since what Robin must assume is the beginning of their conversation. His stance is protective, his gaze carefully studying the homeless man talking to his mother.

The woman stands up and gives her son a silent stare, before turning her head back to him. "So?"

Swallowing, then wetting his lips, Robin finally manages to stutter, "I'll – I'll create one," tearing his gaze away from her hypnotizing dark eyes to stare again at the precious piece of paper he's clutching in a firm grip. He reads and rereads the numbers, expecting them to change, waiting for the moment the woman tells him this is her idea of a sick joke and takes back the atrocious amount of money she's just handed a perfect stranger, but the pang of the real world never tugs at his heart. He remains in this too-good-to-be-true fairytale as she only treats him to more musical words.

"Good. Then you'll want to buy new clothes and go to the Rabbit Hole. It's a bar, just around the corner." Her hands gestures down the street. Robin can't see the building from where he's sitting, but it shouldn't be too hard to find. "Ask for Jefferson. He'll be expecting you," she instructs, tone void of malice or judgement.

Robin gazes up at her, still slightly baffled. "Why are you helping me?"

The corners of the woman's mouth curve upward, crinkles appearing near her eyes. They're even lovelier up close, he thinks, both deep and bright, taking pleasure in making an inarticulate mess out of him. It reminds him of that alternate reality he'd visualized and, oh, how he wishes for it to be true.

"Your talent is being wasted on people who don't care to listen," she tells him, bringing him back to the present. "You deserve to be heard and to change people's lives with your instrument, starting with your own."

Their gazes lock at her words, charged with too many layers of emotions to be appropriate between two people who just met.

She seems to realize her slip and dips her chin self-consciously, needing a minute to regain her composure, but she's beaming when she looks at him next and shrugs, "And it's Christmas," as if everyone stops to talk and hand far too much money to beggars on the street during the holiday season.

Her face changes one last time, and she gives him the warning look she'd previously given her son. "If I see you on this street after the New Year–"

"You'll fry me?" he completes for her with a lopsided smile, making her laugh.

"Something like that."

Her steps are lighter than usual when she walks away – it's why he hadn't recognized her approach – her spirits, too. She joins her son and Robin is left with a check and a smile, realization slowly dawning upon him. She's leaving and he gets to keep the insane amount of money she'd shoved into his hands. Whatever he's done in another life to deserve this, he's eternally glad.

Maybe he'll even see his son again, if he can make an honest man of himself.

Robin carefully tucks the valuable piece of paper inside his jacket and takes his guitar in hand. He plays from the heart this time, lets his fingers strum, pinch and slide on the strings, using the pace of her feet to guide his movements.

She glances back at him over her shoulder, brow furrowed as though she's trying to pinpoint the song he's playing even though she couldn't possibly recognize it; he's making it up from scratch. Opting to treat the familiarity as a fluke instead of some obscure implication of fate, he simply gives her one last smile as she disappears amongst the crowd, sending a silent thank you to the heavens above, to whomever had sent him the dark-haired angel who'd just given him a second chance.

Oh happy day, indeed.

 **::**

The rough bark scratches at her hands as she climbs up the tree, but Regina ignores the pain, eyes and head focused on one goal. She reaches the branch in record time and hides in a hollow of the trunk just as the guards stomp below her, their horses sending the entire forest in a strong vibrato.

She waits until the loud hammering of hooves on the ground is reduced to background noise before she finally allows herself to exhale, sagging in relief against the tree. It'd been a close one.

Her feeble attempt at a dress is covered in mud, the skirt torn in several places from her run through the forest and subsequent climb. Her lame updo has fallen in loose waves around her face, and dirt is stuck to the underside of her fingernails.

Shoulders slumped, Regina settles back against the trunk and stares into the distance, at the castle standing tall and proud amongst the trees, towering over the entire forest, its attractive lights and angelic music momentarily making her wish for another life. Tonight, the whole kingdom is singing, dancing, and drinking merrily – the whole kingdom except her, that is. She can only dream of the perfect Yuletide, forced to conceal herself amongst high leaves to escape capture.

Noises below distract her from her wishful thinking, as a man runs out of the bushes, looking frantically around for an escape route.

No, it can't be.

"You…"

Her voice is louder than she means it to be and the man looks up, spotting her right away amongst the branches.

"Fancy seeing you again, milady," the thief says, bending his upper body in an insolent and ridiculously exaggerated bow, making her seethe.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Regina asks through gritted teeth, eyes flicking nervously towards the main path. Robin Hood's entrance will soon bring guards to her hideout, and she'd be damned if she gave him or them the satisfaction of seeing her caught.

The other outlaw knows none of her distress, though, casually walking closer to her tree but making no move to dodge into the cover of nearby bushes. "I could ask you the same thing," he replies instead, arching an impudent brow and earning himself a glower. He's dangerously playing with time they don't have. If they aren't careful, one or both of them will hear the bells of midwinter from behind the bars of a prison cell.

Voices nearing their position – the Black Knights, no doubt – force Regina to act. "Get up here!"

Robin startles at her command, and she savours the lick of pride she feels at throwing him off his pretentious game.

"What?"

"You heard me, Robin Hood. Get up here or you'll get us both killed!"

Robin doesn't need to be told twice. With one last glance towards the origin of the sound, he hauls himself on the nearest branch, then reaches for the next one. Regina extends her hand and helps him up, inadvertently losing some of her balance and landing them both with a heavy thud against the bark, with next to no space between their bellies. His hands are grasping her waist, his breath raising goosebumps on her skin.

"Get your hands–"

His hand covers her mouth mid-sentence and she yelps in surprise as he hovers above her. She digs her teeth into his hand ( _who does he think he is?_ ) and he winces in pain ( _good_ ), grinding his teeth together to remain silent ( _what the hell?_ ). As he moves further into the cover of the tree, his chest grazes hers and the corset she's wearing brings her breasts treacherously close to his face, but he ignores her attributes in favor of looking her straight in the eyes and pointing down.

A flick of her eyes to the left informs her that Snow White's dwarves are right below them.

Robin motions for her to stay quiet and she nods, knowing, albeit reluctantly, that their only chance of getting out of this alive and with their freedom intact is together.

Regina doesn't know how long they stay pressed together like this, but she knows the sudden accelerando of her heart rate has nothing to do with the dwarves in black armor searching the entirety of the Dark Forest for them, and everything to do with the increasing amount of time she spends in close quarters with her competition. She swallows, willing her heart to slow down before the smug thief notices.

Finally, after eternal minutes, the guards mistake animal tracks for theirs and move away.

Relieved sighs are expelled in tandem, followed by twin chuckles, the situation somewhat hilarious and surreal when Regina thinks about it, but when his eyes find hers – or hers his, she's not quite sure who moved first – the laughter dies down. The ocean contained in his irises washes over her and she feels like drowning, the music from the castle and the sounds of the forest fading as the world shrinks to the both of them, alone in the entire universe.

Until they aren't.

Robin shuffles away from her, murmuring apologies, and Regina finds herself gasping for air, resurfacing without warning.

She expects him to leave, but he displays no such intent. Instead, he studies her, eyes raking her body from head to toe and making her feel suddenly exposed. She follows his gaze to her farce of a dress and tucks her hair behind her ear, avoiding his scrutinizing gaze.

"So, why are you dressed like that?"

The question is no surprise, but the casual tone with which he asks it is. It doesn't embarrass her as much as she'd anticipated and when she risks a peek at him, she finds him looking at her with keen interest.

The intensity of his gaze sets her cheek ablaze, and she turns her head away promptly, towards the acres of forest stretching out below them. "You'll make fun of me," she states defensively, frustrated by her inability to read the man who thwarts her every robbery.

Maybe it isn't a coincidence that he's found her tonight.

"Try me."

Oh, she hates him.

He always sneaks up on her when she leasts expect it. He issues challenges she can't refuse and does so with a gentle tone, prodding her for information without twisting her arm. He's become a presence she abhors but can't get away from. Her body betrays her every time he's near, no matter how much she tells herself she despises him, and she hates that – hates how this man has so easily uncovered the hardened layers of her.

Regina keeps her eyes fixed on the dark canvas of the night sky and straightens her back, mustering what little pride she has left. "I tried to sneak into the ball," she mutters.

His head tilts in mystification. "Pardon me for saying so, milady, but aren't trousers better suited to rob a palace?"

"I had no intention of stealing."

She whispers the confession, as if saying it out loud will make her weak to his eyes – a thought she can't endure – but Robin Hood, yet again, demonstrates shocking maturity by not teasing her further. His voice is serious, if partly coddling, when he says, "In another reality, you're probably the Queen of that palace."

Regina snorts, "Have you seen me?" taking her ripped skirts in hand and lifting them, as if they alone are proof that she can't possibly be of regal quality.

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Robin assures.

She shakes her head. "I'm no Queen."

"But you are beautiful."

Her head whirls around.

Robin is looking at her – really _looking_ at her – taking in her muddied dress, shredded skirt, disheveled hair, and dirty hands as though they are the mark of great elegance and charm and not an indication of her lack of anything remotely close to propriety. She awaits the next joke or mocking remark, but none follow. He seems to truly mean every word of his last statement, knocking the wind right out of her.

She catches a glimpse of his crooked and infuriating grin just before he faces away from her, resuming his contemplation of the horizon as though the space between them is not suddenly charged with electricity – taut, like a bowstring begging for release.

"Don't you believe in alternate realities?" he asks after a moment, keeping up the pretense of small talk, the pent-up energy that had existed between them fizzling away. In its stead, they are left with a somewhat civil, yet unpredictable discussion Regina would rather not partake in. (He gets under her skin, this thief, and she can't get him out.)

She throws him a contemptuous grimace and pours a large amount of disdain in her voice to cover the dash of wistfulness taking root inside her. "What good is there in wishing for things we can never have?" Optimism has brought her nothing but despair in her life; her opinion of such fatuous notions will not change overnight.

"Ever the pragmatic, I see," Robin observes with maddening calm, further unsettling her.

"It's the only way to survive," she tells him sharply, hoping to call off the deceptive subject of conversation.

Her competition has other plans.

"Well," Robin says, straightening his back, "I believe this is not all there is to life." He gestures upward to an opening in the treetops, through which the stars are watching over them. "I think somewhere out there, other versions of ourselves don't have to hide on this day."

Regina rolls her eyes, loath to admit the view of the sky is quite spectacular and the idea he's presenting perhaps not so far-fetched as she first thought.

"Perhaps I'm asking you for a dance," he suggests boldly, offering his hand to some imaginary version of her in front of him, bending forward as he does so, and nearly falling off the branch.

Though his reflexes are good and he's already shifted his weight back in place, her hand instinctively reaches out to steady him, remaining on his arm when he turns to face her, unbothered by the shrunken space between them.

She should distance herself, she thinks. They're on the edge of a slippery slope, leading them into the uncharted territory of tolerance – she refuses to qualify it as friendship or something else she'd rather not ponder – but her body steadily refuses to move.

There's a smile tugging at her lips she fights hard against, but he'd almost just fallen off a tree in an attempt to woo an alternate version of herself; her hardened gaze fools no one, least of all him.

"Not a chance," she states, trying to gain back some dignity.

Robin chuckles – he sees right through her, that damn thief. "We'll see."

His hand covers her own, slowly uncurling her fingers from around his bicep, and drops it back in her lap after a split second hesitation. She misses the warmth of his palm almost instantly.

"So, if I'm the Queen," Regina begins, narrowing her eyes at him – two can play this _what if_ game – "what does that make you? The King?"

Robin smirks and waggles his eyebrows suggestively, "If you'd like…" but fails to keep a straight face when she exasperatedly rolls her eyes. How could she even think he'd take this seriously? She turns her head away from him, and he starts again, a hint (but only that) more serious. "I'd like to think I'd still be me. A ruggedly _handsome_ outlaw–"

She interrupts him right there, throwing him an incredulous look. "You could be anything you desire and you choose to have a price on your head?"

"– who steals the Queen away from the undeserving King," he finishes as if he hadn't heard her, boastful and far too proud of his fictitious victory.

She leaves him to his fantasy, recasting her gaze onto the castle that has her secretly longing for a better life. The music is louder in the late hour, fills the silence alongside the soft lull of their breathing, and renders the moment worthy of saccharine dreams.

Regina closes her eyes. She lets the notes take hold of her and move her body back and forth, mind wandering to this alternate universe Robin had spoken of. All eyes are on her as she twirls in the middle of the ballroom in a heavy gown, the strong arms of her partner supporting her at the waist. (If they happen to belong to someone with bottomless blue eyes and dimples to die for, there's no one to bear witness to the privacy of her own head.)

Her stomach grumbles, bringing the daydream to an anticlimactic end, the shameful noise of her belly overpowering the distant melody.

"Here."

Next to her, Robin's voice drags her the rest of the way back to their own reality.

He pulls a small bundle of linen out of his pocket, uncovering leftover dried meat. He splits the piece in two and offers her half, wearing a sympathetic smile in place of his usual lopsided grin.

"What's that? Pity?" Regina retorts, though she's already reaching for her half, taking an eager bite of the offering, the first real food her stomach has seen since lunch.

Robin chuckles, unoffended by her lack of manners. "A simple thank you would suffice."

She munches some more on her food and mumbles a dry "Thank you," her mouth still full.

His dimples wink at her as he starts eating, too, making the most out of their time safely hidden halfway up a tree. The Evil Queen's soldiers are looking for them elsewhere, but they both know this welcome respite won't last.

The silence is comfortable. Unexpected, but good. It possesses its own rhythm, its own wavelength, as if the forest had saved this moment for them. The leaves rustle in perfect harmony with the chords of the orchestra, and her heart beats to the slow tempo of the waltz.

"Regina, look up."

Done with her food, she does as he asks and freezes.

Winter berries.

Custom dictates two people who find themselves underneath such a sprig exchange a kiss. Failure to do so would result in bad luck, though Regina wonders how much more miserable her life can get.

She feels the weight of Robin's ardent gaze on her skin and finds him staring intently at her, wishes clear as day in his hooded eyes. He's not moving an inch, however, handing her all the power in this unprecedented situation.

"Don't even think about it," is her automatic reply and she nearly takes it back, but it's earned her a laugh from the man beside her, the sound rough on the edges, but a delight to her ears.

She quite likes this sound.

Robin leans in a breadth away from her, a playful gleam dancing in his eyes as he whispers, "I wouldn't dream of it, Your Majesty." And then he sits back upright before she's had a chance to move, leaving her frustratingly turned on and slightly disappointed.

Perhaps she'll regret not seizing her chance later, but as she steals a glance in his direction, she spies a smile ghosting his lips.

Maybe all is not lost.

She does enjoy his company – there's no use in denying it anymore – but she's afraid to jeopardize the precarious balance of friendly competition they've established between them. Hope is her worst enemy; she fears its pull more than her own end. Peeling her gaze away from the temptation of his mouth, she listens to the distant songs coming from the palace and lets her worries be swayed by the breeze.

It almost feels magical, how perfectly everything seems to fall into place: there's music, there's Robin and an imaginary dance, and it's by far the best holiday she's ever had.

 **::**

Wakefulness tugs at the edges of Robin's dream when his arm lands on the mattress next to him, hand encountering cold bedsheets instead of the expected warmth of his wife's body. His eyes crack open, taking in the dark surroundings of his bedroom, the glare from the alarm clock on the bedside table indicating a few minutes past 3:00 AM.

It's no time for anyone to be awake, yet his other half is nowhere to be found, her side of the bed empty and the covers pulled back, the door to the master bedroom closed. Nothing seems amiss from how it was when they fell asleep a few hours ago.

Robin's heart quickens as he sits up, eyes darting around the room for clues. The bathroom light is off, the house quiet, her glass of water sitting half-full on the bedside table.

That's when he hears it.

A faint note, followed by another, and a third one. The soft melody comes to him from downstairs, carried by air molecules to the bedroom where Robin has now given up on falling back asleep.

He slips out of bed, reaching for the discarded shirt on the floor and pulling it over his head as bare-footed feet lead him to the door. He pads through the hallway and down the stairs, smiling sleepily when he reaches the bottom step.

The lit up Christmas tree in the far corner casts its lights on their living room, dark from the late hour, except for the flames of two scented candles illuminating the pages of music on top of the piano. Sitting in front of the instrument is his wife, his beautiful, wonderful wife, fingers dancing gracefully over the keys as she hums to the lullaby, her body swaying from side to side.

"How are my girls doing?" Robin inquires as he steps in behind her, hands coming to rest on her shoulders, massaging the hard knots these days always find in her back.

She moans at his touch, fingers pausing midway through the song and hovering above the keys as she leans back against his abdomen, lashes falling shut.

He puffs out a soft chuckle and presses a kiss to her hair, setting to work on the tightness in her neck and shoulders. Each hard press of his fingers into her skin elicits delicious sounds from his wife, sounds that make him half-hard under his pajama bottoms.

Robin can't imagine a time in his life – in any possible life he might have lived – where he's been happier.

"I was wondering how long you'd stand there staring at me," Regina remarks, and he shrugs.

Voice low and seductive, he whispers to her ear, "I can't help it if my wife is the most beautiful woman in town."

Her shoulders slump suddenly, slipping out of his grasp as she looks down to her lap. "I'm so big," she says, but her protests fall on deaf ears – it's not the first time they've had this conversation.

"Nonsense," he states, abandoning his place behind her in favor of a seat on the bench. His hand cradles her cheek, tipping her chin up to gaze into her eyes as his free hand brushes against her rounded belly. "You're creating life," he tells her with all the love he can muster. "Our daughter is growing inside you and I've never desired you more than I do now."

Regina raises a suggestive brow. "Yes, of _that_ ," she replies in a knowing tone, hand landing at the apex of his thighs, "I am well aware." A flicker of mischievousness burgeons in her eyes and she smirks, stroking him over his pants.

"Come here," he whispers against her lips before capturing them in a searing kiss.

His attempt at seduction fails miserably when she erupts into laughter against his mouth, her forehead falling to his chest as she tries to contain it.

"I'm sorry," she says, but Robin's shaking his head, his laughter already echoing her own.

Their eyes, like magnets, find each other's again, and then foreheads lean in to touch, as they bask in the peace and quiet of the night and their home. It soon won't be so.

He kindly pecks her lips again and reiterates, "You're beautiful," feeling a violent kick against his hand as a reward.

His eyes open wide and he beams at his wife, but Regina sighs resolutely, distancing herself from him. "And _your_ daughter," she says pointedly as if her predicament is his fault – he smirks – "refuses to sleep."

Robin bends down to speak to her stomach. "Are you giving your mother trouble, little one?"

"The only thing that calms her is this." Regina gestures to the piano in defeat.

"Ah," Robin offers her a lopsided smile, "she takes after her mother, then," recalling the day he'd caught her sneaking into the restricted music hall of the University in-between business classes. He'd followed her in and stood outside her door, listening to the way she mastered the instrument and quickly losing track of time, missing his next class. Before long, he'd fallen hard and deep for a woman he only knew through keys and notes, unprepared for the way she'd soon turn his life upside down.

"Seems like it," his wife replies with a wistful smile, breath suddenly shorter. Her mind is miles and times away from their living room, spiralling down into her memories, back to a time where music was the air filling her lungs and keeping her alive, the only salvation to be found in her world.

And that one terrifying time even the safe embrace of a melody had failed to save her from herself.

Tentatively, Robin reaches for her hand.

As he expects, she jumps at his touch, eyes worried and alarmed when they seek comfort from his own.

He reassures immediately, "Regina, you are nothing like your mother." His thumb traces small soothing circles against the back of her hand, as he waits for her undivided attention before speaking. "You are gentle, independent, and resilient, and I can only hope our daughter becomes half the woman you are." A tear rolls down her cheek at his shower of compliments, and Robin wipes the damp trail with his thumb. "You will be an amazing mother."

Fighting against more tears, her _thank you_ is mouthed and silent, but she squeezes his hand with a nod and Robin knows she'll be fine.

Indicating the piano with his chin, he queries, "Shall we?" and she bobs her head again, turning to face the instrument.

His hands join hers on the keys this time. He'd learn to play – to speak her language – shortly after they met, when he realized she wasn't like every other college kid who enjoyed the thrill of illegally sneaking into the music rooms. Regina had craved the connection to the instrument, _needed_ it – still does.

She lets her fingers tell the story of the gratitude she cannot express in words, and he answers in kind with a gentle press of chords that slowly bury the past and make room for the future. A future where he hopes she can find it in herself to be happy, for he knows no one more deserving of happiness than his wife.

She looks up to him after a while, a delicate smile gracing her lips. "She stopped kicking," she says softly.

Robin smiles and kisses her temple.

They keep on playing.

 **::**

 _Running late. See you in 10._

Regina sends the quick text as she scrambles out of the house, bag dangling from her wrist, heels in hand, and folder tucked under her arm. In seconds, she's down the stairs and by her car, fumbling for her keys in her coat pocket.

She somehow manages to unlock the door without dropping everything else, setting the assortment of objects she's carrying in the passenger seat as soon as she's in. Her feet slip into the flip flops she keeps in the car – no one with a sane mind would drive around wearing three-inch heels – and reviews her mental checklist before turning the key in the ignition.

The radio turns on as the car roars to life, _Santa Claus is Coming to Town_ blasting through the speakers.

Regina pauses to listen to the familiar tune in the middle of her morning rush and smiles.

She loves Christmas.

Soon, snow will blanket the streets and colourful garlands will adorn the storefronts. There will be caroling and presents under the tree and Christmas music will replace the 80's retro songs all restaurant and shop owners in this town insist on playing year-round.

The thought has her singing along to the music, the festive feeling of the season seeping through her veins. If anyone catches her rocking out to an upbeat version of _Jingle Bell Rock_ through the car windows, then so be it. She's got nothing to prove to anyone in this town.

That's how she gets distracted, singing along to _It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year_ while parked in her usual spot in front of the diner, momentarily forgetting that someone is waiting for her inside. The drive normally only takes a few minutes, so she's actually a whole twenty minutes late today when she finally pushes the door open, hitting the dangling bell that signals her presence.

Robin looks up from their booth with a knowing grin – after all these years, he knows exactly what's made her even later this morning – and she flops down on the bench opposite to him, returning the smile with one of her own.

He pushes a steaming travel mug towards her. "I got you coffee."

"You're a lifesaver," she exclaims, taking an eager gulp of the warm liquid, perfectly doctored, a touch sweetened and a soupçon of cream. Oh, she loves him.

"I know," he replies, taking a sip of his own mug.

Regina playfully narrows her eyes at him. "And so humble."

"Always."

Matching chuckles escape their throats as they bask in the joy of their Friday morning coffee date, _Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree_ now playing over the radio. The waitress brings them a croissant split in two, Regina getting the bigger half, always, as they exchange news and update each other on their lives, work, and everything in-between.

"You're still coming over for Thanksgiving?" Robin asks when they're done eating, the holiday coming in less than a week.

Her cup stops halfway to her lips and Regina hesitates for a second, long enough to warrant a worried look from Robin.

"... I don't know," she finally admits, biting her bottom lip.

Surprised, Robin raises an inquiring eyebrow. Ever since that first invitation nearly ten years ago, she's always spent Thanksgiving with him. Estranged from her own family and having lost Daniel a few months prior, she'd been ever so thankful when Robin had invited her to join him and his family on her first holiday after the tragedy. They'd all been so welcoming, the Locksleys, smiling and hugging her the minute she'd entered the household, parents, uncles, aunts, and cousins all treating her as one of their own.

They'd been a blessed second chance at family and had made her realize that the best bonds did not necessarily lie in blood.

She looks at Robin now and, though talking about it makes it sound rather official when it's not a steady relationship by any means, she finds she can't lie to him. They've been through too much.

"I... met someone," Regina admits, poking at the sleeve of her cup as if it were suddenly very interesting.

An awkward silence accompanies her declaration, during which Robin takes in the news, before tentatively asking, "Is it serious?"

She lets out a heavy breath and chances a peek at her best friend, finding him looking back at her with nothing but genuine interest in his gaze. He'll back away if she tells him to, she knows he will, but if she can't tell Robin about her life, she can't very well tell anyone.

"I think so," she says somewhat shyly.

Robin breaks into a grin.

"Well if he – or she?" he prods, trying to get details out of her, but she shoots him a deterrent glare, remains steadfast in her silence, and laughs at the grunt of dissatisfaction that precedes his, "Well, whoever _they_ are, if they don't invite you over for Thanksgiving, you'll always have a place at our table."

She smiles. "Thank you."

He takes another sip of his coffee and tells her, "It's Granny who's going to miss you."

"I'll miss her too. Maybe I could stop by later in the evening."

"Of course," he replies with enthusiasm. "She'd love that." His expression turns cheeky. "And you can bring your date."

Regina shakes her head at his suggestion and chides, "You're incorrigible. You hate not knowing. Admit it."

Robin dips his chin. "Guilty," he says and she rolls her eyes, taking another mouthful of coffee. "But I also know," he adds with reverence, "that this mystery person would be very welcomed should you choose to bring them with you."

"So your family can question them and scare them away?" she jests, though she knows he tells the truth. The Locksleys would be grateful to get to know whomever she wishes to introduce them to.

Robin appears faux hurt by her words. "They wouldn't!"

"I'm more scared about them meeting your family than my own mother."

He laughs out loud, "They're not _that_ bad," and Regina snickers.

"No, I guess they're not," she tells him, "but they care," in a way her own mother never will.

His hand reaches across the table for hers and gives it a light squeeze, a gesture she returns by turning her palm up and curling her fingers around his. Robin doesn't press for new information after that, but his silent support never waivers, reminding her again of how grateful she is to have him in her life.

She'll tell him someday, soon, when she's ready, but for now the laughter that carries them through the conversation is enough, and, with _Feliz Navidad_ over the speakers, Regina is perfectly content to revel in the moment. She doesn't need much to be happy. Her best friend, a couple of Christmas songs, and Friday morning coffee dates are more than enough.

 **::**

The castle gates open on the morning of the Yule.

Villagers and merchants meander through hauling caravans of food and mulled wine, dragging livestock, and carrying their best trade: yarn, spices, and all manner of things. A decent offering to the King will obtain them a spot in the front lawn, a coveted location for the evening's festivities.

Midwinter is the same every year. A large gathering brings to the palace kings and queens from all corners of the realm, coming together during the Yuletide to secure alliances for the year to come. Disguised as a celebration, it's a display of riches for the most part, an occasion for the King to make a good impression on his subjects and the neighbouring monarchs.

While large bonfires keep the smallfolk warm, noblemen and women enjoy a fine selection of the host kingdom's best musicians. Evergreens and ornaments of all kinds decorate the palace's most luxurious ballroom, and a feast is offered to the visitors, who eat and drink until they are merry.

For a group of bandits like the Merry Men, the Yule ball only means one thing: a golden opportunity to steal the crown jewels.

With everyone busy entertaining in the ballroom and the knights standing guard outside to prevent outlaws from entering the castle – a task they fail at, dismally – protection around the vault is minimal.

The plan they've put together is simple: go in, steal the jewels, and get out without getting caught.

Robin executes the first two tasks with no real setbacks. There'd been a few more guards than he expected, but nothing he wasn't prepared to handle. As he makes his way through the crowd and to the balcony they'd previously identified as a safe escape route, however, his carefully calculated exit fails.

It's the Queen. She chooses that exact moment to make her entrance, and Robin, not unlike every other man and woman in the room, finds himself thoroughly bewitched by her. The diminuendo in the music allows for an official announcement, and over the murmur of approval from the crowd, the herald's voice is loud and clear.

"Her Majesty, the Queen."

In one swift motion, all eyes turn to the landing, where the woman in question is standing tall and proud.

Robin is mesmerized. The tales he'd gathered from the villagers had mentioned the Queen's guile and impervious backbone, but had failed to do justice to her striking beauty. And she is. Stunning, that is.

Her skirts, pouring down from her waistline in rich layers of crimson fabric, graze the marble stairs as she begins her slow descent, the sleeveless bodice hugging her ribcage like a second skin. Silvery patterns dance across the wine red material of the right half, covering all but her left breast and a slit in the outer layer of her skirt, revealing the carmine of her underskirt. Feathers adorn her right shoulder, accented by the elegant updo of her raven hair. The neckline dips low enough to allow a tantalizing taste of her breasts, though it is by no means disgraceful, and her arms are covered from the tip of her fingers to above her elbow by gloves as dark as night. Her gaze has an instantaneous impact on the room as it sweeps over heads, making man and woman go down on bended knee in a majestic ripple effect.

In his desire to keep a low profile, Robin emulates the crowd, but he can't help stealing a glimpse at the Queen, catching the ends of a pained smile on her perfectly painted lips. A deadly shade of scarlet, they are, and Robin would bet anything her smile alone is enough to strike down an entire legion of men.

The festivities start again as she takes her seat next to the King, music filling the ballroom, and Robin retreats to the shadows, his window of escape over. He likely won't get another opportunity to sneak out until another important character arrives or departs, which could take a while now that the Queen is here.

He camps out on the side of the dance floor, taking this opportunity to observe the noble life he has long ago rejected. His father, though a drunken bastard, had risen to the title of Lord when Robin was but an infant and tonight reminds him of why he'd been so glad to flee this kind of life.

It doesn't take long for a lordling of some importance to step up to the royal couple, asking the Queen for a dance the King is all too happy to grant. Robin surprises himself thinking that, had a woman of her grace and beauty been his, he wouldn't have been so eager to share her. He'd have kept her on his arm all night, made sure every man in attendance knew she was his, and treated her with the utmost respect.

(In hindsight, this is probably the moment Robin lost track of his reason for being there in the first place.)

He doesn't know what prompts him to do it, but after long minutes of watching the Queen being handed to every lecherous lord and lordling who want a chance to gaze down her cleavage, his feet move of their own accord. He leaves the outskirts of the room and, in a few strides, finds himself bowing awkwardly in front of Her Majesty. "Milady, would you care for a stroll in the gardens? I would have asked for a dance, but your feet must be tired after all these songs. Allow me to relieve them."

Blue eyes meet brown as he uncurls his spine. Either she sees something that speaks of sincerity or she's absolutely desperate to get away because she immediately excuses herself, taking Robin's offered arm and leading them towards the back doors herself.

He's all too happy to follow, their exit not going unnoticed by the many envious men, to whom Robin throws back a victorious grin. He steps closer to the Queen until they're out of the room and well into the gardens, discouraging any onlookers from interrupting their escape. She's the one to let go of his arm once they reach a secluded part of the castle grounds, and Robin releases his hold on her, waiting two pace behind as she inhales profoundly, replaces the stale air of the ballroom in her lungs with the freshness of the cool midnight breeze.

"Thank you," she breathes when a couple of lengthy seconds have passed, shoulders sagging in relief as she turns to face him.

Far from the haughty glare she'd greeted every person in the room with, she treats him to her first real smile of the evening, wide and bright, and he was right. It is deadly. And it has, in fact, already caused his end, for all he can think about now is how he wants to see more of it, to see that smile unbridled and free.

Energy sizzles between them anew as his gaze locks with hers, a continuation of the brief connection they'd shared inside. What is about her that renders him speechless?

He shakes off the boyish nervousness blooming in his belly and offers her a short bow. "If I may, Your Majesty, you looked quite overwhelmed in there." Feeling his confidence return, he takes a step in her direction; she doesn't back away. "I was merely trying to bring you some measure of comfort."

But as he gets closer, the Queen's stance turns defensive. "Are you going to request something?"

"Only something you're willingly offering."

She reassesses him, then, taking in his substandard choice of clothing – it was permanently borrowed from a rich merchant, but could by no means rival the expensive wardrobe of those of noble birth – and far from polished appearance, and asks, "Who are you?"

Robin ducks his head at the dreaded question.

He considers fabricating a story of some lord or another owing him a debt, but she'd no doubt detect the lie and deem him no better than the men who'd been ogling her inside. He settles for, "That is a question best left unanswered for now," hoping the lack of information won't offend her. Rarely do people refuse to answer when Her Majesty questions them.

He expects her to head back inside, but she surprises him with an accepting nod and, "A dance, then?"

Robin blinks. "Here?"

"You said you wanted a dance," she replies. "And if we're not going to talk…" Her implication is not hard to guess.

"I did say that," he acknowledges, with a trace of smugness in his brow.

He watches her carefully as he treads towards her lightly, looking for any sign of discomfort. Wide pupils follow his every movement as he wraps an arm around her waist, trails his fingers along her spine, until he finds purchase just below her shoulder blade. The movement brings her enticing ruby-painted lips inches away from his mouth, and he finds himself utterly captivated when her tongue peeks out to wet them. Robin feels naked, his soul bare to her hypnotizing brown eyes.

He momentarily forgets that she's the Queen and he an outlaw when her arm gracefully lands over his during an interlude in the music. The contact is electric, has his heart thumping faster against his ribcage, and his breath catches before he pulls her close, lining up their bodies for a traditional dance.

"I can't think of anything I'd like more," he breathes into the space between them, as if it were a secret that would cost them both their heads.

(It would, Robin thinks. Though the King hasn't shown an ounce of interest in his wife all evening, he'd be far from pleased to find her in the arms of a thief.)

As the musicians launch into a new song, their free hands join and Robin guides them through a series of synchronized steps, feet shuffling over the grass. They glide and twirl, come apart and together, and never once, even when a lift brings her chest dangerously close to his face, does his gaze leave hers. His hands are steady against her hips, his body acutely aware of every inch of contact as they sway to the music, but he obstinately refuses to act like those pesky noblemen he so despises. He may be a thief, but he has honour.

Too soon, the final cadences of the dance resound in the semi-private square of gardens they occupy. Their pace slows, falling completely out of sync with the hastened tempo of the music, but they're both too wrapped up in each other to notice, rocking softly to the joint rhythm of their beating hearts.

The Queen is the one to break their hold, pulling back to rest her eyes upon his face. They're an open book, dark and vulnerable, revealing a torment seldom associated with the lives of royals. Robin is immediately beset with the need to alleviate it without even knowing the cause. He wants to see her smile again. Such lovely eyes should not be the bearer of any kind of pain.

"Tell me who you are," she pleads as they come to a stop before the end of the song, fingers tracing a downward pattern along his arms.

He can't hide his identity from her any longer. She's right. This deception has to stop. But as he opens his mouth to tell her the truth, he's beaten to the punch by the yells of far off guards. _Thief! Thief! Get him! He must not be allowed to escape!_

The world tips under their feet, and the illusion shatters, his heart pierced by numberless shards of glass. Her hands let go of him arm as if burned, the loss of contact magnifying the yearning in his chest tenfold. Reality is a wave of ice cold water, crashing over them and submerging them, bringing their stolen moment in the gardens to an abrupt and definite end.

The satisfaction he'd found in escaping the guards is worthless in the light of the sorrow it's brought her. Guilt draws creases on his face as he looks at her, heart sinking into his stomach. This isn't how he'd intended for her to find out.

"Your husband may find his vault lacking a few shiny objects," he explains and, if she's surprised, it doesn't show. Quite the contrary, the Queen looks resigned – hopeless, almost.

Her voice lacks its previous spark when she says, "I should have you arrested," and leaves Robin with a bitter aftertaste. The secluded comfort of brief escape has been snatched away, but he won't let her feel poorly. He'd come to the castle for the jewels, he couldn't deny it, but he certainly hadn't stayed for them.

"I'd gladly give them back," he says, searching her gaze for an offer of absolution, ignoring the soldiers he knows are coming for him.

She looks confused for an instant, her whisper of "Why?" almost inaudible.

"The jewels are not what I desire anymore," Robin puts simply, fingers risking a gentle touch of her forearm. His hand glides down slowly to grasp her hand, but she's the one to wrap her fingers around his own, squeezing lightly.

She looks at their joined hands, then back to him, hesitating for a moment before bringing their hands to rest an inch above her left breast. Her heart pounds against his palm, a surging crescendo of intimacy. "You can't steal something that's been given to you," she says with an amount of trust he's wholly unworthy of.

Her words rivet him to the spot, muscles inanimate even though the knights have now entered the gardens.

The Queen has to nudge him out of his trance, pushing him forward until his feet heed her command and stop listening to his own unresponsive body. She gestures towards the narrow path through the rosebushes. "There's an exit on the other side of the gardens," she speaks quickly, shoving him in the right direction. "Go. I'll distract them."

He obeys with one last longing look, committing every detail of her face to memory.

"Tell your King I'll be coming back for what's mine," he swears solemnly before taking off, feet hitting the earth faster and faster as he gains speeds and distance over his pursuers.

Leaving her behind creates a violent ache in his chest that never abates over time. It's like she's half of his soul and he's incomplete without her, a story worthy of legends. He doesn't care that she's married. King or no King, he will not let her rot in that castle any longer than necessary.

Soon, he will be back for her.

 **::**

She pokes his chest with a knuckle. "You didn't answer my question."

Robin looks at her confused. "What?"

She sighs. "All those versions of us – do you ever wonder if they end up together?"

He _ahhs_ and shakes his head. "No."

"Why?"

"Because I'm quite happy with this universe," he answers in the most simple way, blue eyes looking at her as if _she_ is his whole world. "This you," his lips press softly against hers, "this me," move to her cheek, "our children," the hollow behind her ear. "That's all I need." He traces the path back to her lips, gentle kisses that never heat but warm each crevice of her heart.

Tears have welled up in her eyes and his figure is a blur when he finally pulls back to look at her. She captures his mouth in a silent _thank you_ and curls up against his chest, arm hugging his waist.

He drops a kiss to her hair, shifts to accommodate for her, and they find themselves lying down, her side pressed to his front, her head pillowed on his arm. She waves her hand in the air and, the next instant, all lights in the room are off save for those of the tree, multi-coloured speckles dancing on the walls of the living room. Regina turns her head into his chest, her cold nose seeking warmth in the crook of his neck. The sensation makes him wince, but she doesn't move, the corner of her mouth tilting up in a smirk.

Robin chuckles, the sound reverberating through his chest. His hand weaves into her hair, untangling her locks without pulling on them, playing softly with loose strands of hair. The pleasant sensation lulls her halfway to sleep, makes her feel safe and loved, and fills her with gratitude for this man who entered her complicated life and never asked for anything in return.

Tension leaves her muscles for good. Her limbs loosen, body getting heavier by the minute.

She feels Robin's arm tighten around her waist. He tucks her securely against him, humming a song she's never heard before. The lyrics are unfamiliar, yet resonate inside her ribcage, spreading warmth to her fingers and toes. It fills her with an unparalleled sentiment of peace, touches her soul in a way that's uniquely _Robin_.

His heart joins hers as it beats to the unknown melody: a soft adagio, with no clear start or finish.

It's how they fall asleep, wrapped up in each other and their own silent song, that of two broken souls who have found in each other a second chance. Theirs is a hymn of loss and love, forged through the years by hardships and resiliency.

The old tales of their land were right about something.

Music transcends realms and penetrates the soul, and two halves find each other in-between the notes.

* * *

 _This was written for pheonixshine for the 2015 OQ Secret Santa on Tumblr._

 _Many thanks to Nina, Jen, Dani, and Eva for putting up with me as I wrote this story._


End file.
